Journals of a Psychopath

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Enslaved, scarred, abused. Will she escape?

The Woodlander Warriors and the Darkest-One

Virtually impenetrable, the dark fall parted, the red-hot sticks and the conflagration invaded the gloom.
      “Please can I have some liquor?” The Lady Flarice asked.
Heaving Lady Flarice to her feet and I forced her to dance, her feet seemed wooden, she lamely shambled on the makeshift dance floor, her face was etched with dismay.
      “Sir Clarkson please let Alexia live? I can nurse her back to health.”
      “The Purifiers the Archangel and the Informer decreed the surrender of Alexia.”
      “Why? Sir Clarkson.”
      “It sanitizes our soul deems us pure to commune with the Wooden Forms and the Darkest-One.”
Dancing on Alex's body and Smithson hooted. Peering at Smithson and he curved to Alexia she whimpered.
      “Your time has come,” I said.
Standing to the fore with malice and Smithson prized her eye from the socket she screamed. Pushing the pure white silk over her nose and mouth, she could not breathe. Laughing and the cackle pierced the air. She died and the triumphant song resounded among our Loved Ones. Pivoting and singing our dialect was non-standard, the Lady Flarice appreciated our song and she swooned, Smithson bowed in awe and he revered me.

Charlenson

She was morose, Elaina had visited earlier to help sis pack the important stuff, and the rest stored. Steering to the sanatorium and Elaina was in the rear next to sis, I saw how frail Charl’s was, and Smithson sat in front. We arrived.
      “It seems agreeable,” Charlenson said.
Trees lined the drive. The huge yard was filled with winter shrubs. Noticing people on the path muffled and the wheelchairs had transported the residents.
Sis scrutinized the setting and the impressive house was daunting. The tires crunched on the gravel. Halting, we vacated the car. Utilizing the bell and an austere woman with meager hair scraped into a bun opened the door.
      “Yes,” she said.
The woman’s face was stern and the lines on her face told the story.
      “I am Miss Samuel and I have come to occupy the room we reserved.”
Mrs. Dawson eyed sis and she grinned.
      “Ah, yes come inside.”
Filling in forms pertinent to her health and sis sighed. During the procedure a young girl brought us coffee, but Charlenson declined. Conducting us through the house to a room to the rear, it was sunny and warm, furnished with classy items sis looked satisfied.

 

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